


and all this time

by younghyuns



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8101573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/younghyuns/pseuds/younghyuns
Summary: Prompt Code: P036 
Junmyeon runs with lightning crackling at his heels while flowers grow in between cement.(Or, Junmyeon is a clusterfuck of events he pretends he’s not made of, and, guess what, so is everyone else.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For my prompter, I hope that you enjoy this! I don't think this was what you were expecting but hopefully I grabbed your prompt and ran with it down a good path ahaha I wanted to make this a story about college but also Junmyeon fully letting go of something so he can go forward with it. Special thanks to the Sprout for listening to my ramblings and excessive worrying over this fic and my Bean Beta for helping me pull through! Thank you to the mods especially for all of the troubles I put you all through! Ya'll are seriously the BEST!

* * *

When the summer season hits and mosquitoes emerge from the twelfth circle of hell, he sells his car. The fifteen-year-old model is put to rest after cruising through his older brother and then Junmyeon and when he drops the car off for the last time, the owner asks if he would want a piece and Junmyeon has to nip away at the bitterness that laps at the back of his throat. He declines and the owner laughs with a wheeze Junmyeon can only hope is from smoking if the cigarette butts littering the ash tray at the front desk were any indication.

With the scrap metal fees paid, Junmyeon finds his skin peeling at the thought of his freshman dorm room, the sandpaper colored bunk beds and desks crammed together crushing his ribs as he packs his things. He stands, knees buckled and skinny jeans clinging to his thighs slicked with the sweat of the summer heat and humidity, at the entrance of the dorm. The windows are cracked open with the breeze diffusing in with the sounds of skateboards eating the concrete and somewhere he hears a soccer ball tapping off of someone’s head.

A cardboard box sits at his feet and he’s reminded of his purpose.

He smells spray-on sunscreen trickle in and the scent of chlorine dances on his cheekbones as he makes his way to his closet.

He thanks himself from a year ago for not bringing much. He hobbles around while grabbing bunches of shirts that he had long given up on folding (At a certain point, began to shove into his dresser). He unhooks his jackets from their hangers, discovers stacks of loose papers from his desk, and wades his way through the mugginess to the shower shelving unit. He slides his face towel from it’s spot, folded with immaculate corners and grabs his toiletry bag. His eyes trail over the dry shampoo that was gifted to him. He recalls his first winter break at university when ice was still attempting to be broken and he was roped into playing Secret Santa with his roommates.

He remembers a dinner he ate only half of (the waitress was kind enough to get a box for him) and sitting on a sidewalk bench as Christmas jingles played in the distance from the main plaza. Junmyeon remembers walking past the main plaza and seeing a woman holding a thick wad of strings leading up to balloons, almost a hundred or maybe even more if Junmyeon didn’t rationalize. He remembers she looked like a fire sprite, a real one if he really wanted to believe his memory. She was small, and her long, dyed-red hair tied in a high ponytail and tanned skin with neon teal acrylic nails made Junmyeon wonder if she would set flight if she jumped even the smallest amount.

He remembers wondering, almost gathering the courage to look her in the eyes from where he was walking past a display of fruit tarts that his roommates had taken interest in, if she would let go of all of those balloons at once. She could, he thinks, at any time of the day. Looking her in the eyes wouldn’t have made a difference. 

He tries to laugh as he thumbs over the unbroken seal.

He shoves it to the bottom of his box as his eyes roam for a while longer on his bed with a frame that stood too high from the ground. He looks to his barren wall and wonders briefly if it would’ve looked nicer with some small posters taped to it.

He shakes his head as the corners of his mouth curl upwards.

He figures that he wouldn’t have belonged in the photo or at the dinner whether or not he had lingered for a little while longer.

Junmyeon didn’t live at the dorm anyways.

He hoists his book bag onto his shoulders and walks out, box in hand.

* * *

Junmyeon puts down a deposit for an apartment with the money from totaling the car. He originally plans to only rent a one bedroom until his brother texts him about his friend going in as a freshman, and implores Junmyeon, reasoning about how said freshman is shy and needs friends. Junmyeon has no qualms about the whole matter and he’s rather certain that the incoming freshman will eventually leave with his nose in the air

(He’s rather certain, not scared, not petrified, not terrified in the slightest.)

He agrees, mostly so the conversation can reach the dead end faster. He avoids the argument, avoids the fuss, and avoids the awkward stares across forced family dinners when he says yes to his older brother’s text. (The blue bubble burns his eyes.)

His attempts to avoid any confrontation are to no avail when his brother calls him on a stuffy afternoon on Sunday to arrange the money.

“He’ll pay you three-fifty for half the deposit, just keep it for emergencies.” His brother, Junseo, reminds.

“Mm, yeah okay,” Junmyeon tries his best to sound preoccupied, but he’s sure to warp his voice to make it seem like he’s more content than he actually is.

“Junmyeon,” Junseo sighs, and Junmyeon feels his throat constrict with small round pebbles. The pebbles begin to roll their way up his throat, round and slow as they turn his throat dry and he suddenly is struggling to breathe. “Did you really have to go all the way up there? You never even call home or come home for that matter. What did you do freshman year?”

Junmyeon makes a hum through the phone while a small pebble trickles out of his mouth and slams on the floor.

“Seriously.” His brother’s voice hardens, turning stern when they both know that Junmyeon won’t reply truthfully. “I’m asking: what did you do freshman year? You never came home for winter or spring or summer break…” Junseo’s voice softens and Junmyeon’s stomach tightens at the sound. The gentleness of it raises the bitter taste at the back of his throat, and Junmyeon’s thumb wavers over the hang up button.

“I took summer classes,” Junmyeon mumbles absentmindedly as he lugs the last box into the apartment. There isn’t much he has to bring with him. His ears begin to burn as he hears Junseo sigh and if Junmyeon really wanted to, he would’ve ripped out his earphones and hung up. “I had a summer job, sue me. Better than mom paying for all the dorm fees. I can sustain myself now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

But he won’t.

“Yeah? And does that warrant you not calling home once until mom had to call you herself? Honestly, Junmyeon, we care about you. We don’t want you stressin’ out and stuff. We don’t expect--” Junseo’s voice grates against Junmyeon’s ears as more pebbles fall out of his mouth. He recalls that the pebbles used to be sharp, used to cut against his gums and cheeks and would leave him on the floor in a bloody heap.

“I have to do well don’t I?” Junmyeon cuts his brother off as gentle as he can; his voice subsequently lowers in volume despite being alone in the apartment. He scans the living room, desolate of any furniture and Junmyeon feels the weariness biting at his bones at the thought of furniture shopping. Junseo clears his throat and Junmyeon is shaken from his thoughts of coffee tables when he launches into another topic. “Who’s my new roommate anyways? You sure he’s not an axe murderer?”

Junseo sighs, disgruntled by his younger brother’s aloofness, but Junmyeon could give less of a shit.

(That’s what he tells himself at least.)

“He’s an environmental science major and directionally challenged like a duck with two left feet. I would tell you his hair color but the dude changes it all the time. All I can really tell you is that he’ll come by probably around Thursday.”

“And..? What’s his name?” Junmyeon pitches his voice higher, but his brother isn’t having any of it by the noises of his tired sighs. (Junmyeon wants to match beat per beat with those sighs, but the pebbles permit him otherwise.)

“Kim Jongdae.”

“Wait, _Kim_? You’re telling me you let your friend’s little brother room with _your_ little brother?” Junmyeon attempts to sound fussier than he actually is, trying to shed some cuteness onto his brother to get him to move on from the previous spat. He wants to throw in a laugh, sound amused and like he actually cares, but he doesn’t, and the laugh doesn’t come through.

He tries not to think of it as a failure as he feels something cold settle at the center of his chest.

It tingles.

“Yeah well, Jongdae’s gotta have _some_ friends, and you’re Patient Zero so no worries.” Junseo says, and Junmyeon can hear his shrug through the crackly, whipping wind on his older brother’s end.

Junmyeon doesn’t want to ask what the implications of Patient Zero mean, so he merely hums through the phone to feign understanding. Junseo lets out another sigh, and before his brother can make any more arguments about Junmyeon’s visiting habits, he agrees.

He agrees to rooming with Jongdae—Jumyeon has known the kid since they were younger, but had only seen him enough times to count on his left hand; Junmyeon recalls Jongdae being gone often with his best friend, Baekhyun, last time Junseo told their mother about the Kim’s family state—and ends his call with his brother as perfectly as he can. He “mms” and “ahhs” at the correct moments at the perfect intervals and laughs at the punch lines and then Junseo ends the call and there are too many pebbles surrounding Junmyeon.

Junmyeon tosses his phone on the counter and doesn’t visit it until he emerges from his nightly shower.

(He doesn’t answer any of the text messages.)

* * *

Junmyeon keenly becomes aware of his shortcomings when he’s twelve and a new student all the way from Canada and stone-cold eyes is put into his homeroom class.

Tall Boy didn’t get introduced to the class; rather, the class introduced itself to him.

Clambering up the stairs in his gray sneakers, Junmyeon notices that his usual seat in the middle of class finally has a person sitting next to it as he enters the classroom. He feels his chest tickle from the underside of his skin (Junmyeon then had thought he was excited, elated almost.)

The thorns growing underneath his skin grow sharper when a boy, tan and lanky, hunched over his desk as if protecting himself makes his way into Junmyeon’s view of sight. He looks impossibly tall (as tall as a seventh grader can really be at this point, but Junmyeon has always been on the smaller side) as he sits in the chair and his legs struggle to find purchase underneath the desk.

Tall Boy sits in his dark green hoodie and black shorts, brooding, and Junmyeon feels winded at the thought of a new face. Junmyeon struggles to get to his seat when all of the kids begin to crowd around Tall Boy, who obviously sticks out like a sore thumb. As he gets closer to his seat (and Tall Boy) he is vaguely reminded of an Air Dancer in front of the local car dealerships. (At the same time, Junmyeon finally remembers to breathe when air-conditioned air begins to fan his face)

“What’s your name?” Minho, now the second tallest boy in the class, asks. He makes himself the head of the small crowd of kids gathered around Tall Boy. Junmyeon, in his mess of limbs and small shoulders, tries not to feel his heart dropping when he sees the now, second tallest boy in their class. He ignores the sentiment of grass stains on shorts and watching soccer matches of men he pretends he didn’t memorize the names of.

He remembers Minho teaching him how to play soccer during break and funny stories from after school club soccer. Despite sharing the same home room again as last year, Junmyeon can only remember after school club soccer stories as a thing of the past.

(They are only in the past.)

He remembers ice cream on Fridays after school waiting for their moms to pick them up. He remembers telling his mother about his new best friend, the tallest boy he’s ever met who plays club soccer.

(He also remembers his mother asking him what happened to that best friend, the tallest boy he’s ever met who plays club soccer.

They are only in the past.)

“Kris,” Tall Boy says as Junmyeon molds into his seat. As he takes out his pencil case he notices Minho staring at him, possibly waiting for Junmyeon to make eye contact so they can officially greet each other for the day, but Junmyeon resists the urge to look. Junmyeon feels the thorns grow underneath his chest as he berates himself, knowing that he only _wishes_ that Minho would try to initiate eye contact with him, that it wasn’t Junmyeon this entire time that wished that Minho would look at Junmyeon instead of Kibum and Jinki and Taemin and Jonghyun—

Instead, he looks to Tall Boy, or Kris as he’s now learned.

“Cool. I’m Minho. What school’re you from?” Junmyeon tries not wince at the sound of a coy smile growing on Minho’s face. He finds himself slowly sucking in a breath, finding anything else to focus on while he tries to wholly believe that Minho is there.

“Point Grey.” Kris mumbles, deciding to fiddle with the hem of his hoodie.

“Huh? Where’s that?” Minho pushes and Junmyeon lowers his gaze, meekly looking through his bangs as he fiddles with his pencil lead canister.

(Junmyeon knows that Minho is jutting out his lower lip in curiosity.)

“Canada.”

The classroom goes quiet at the thought of _Canada_ , and even Junmyeon falls to the idea of moose, maple syrup, and snow.

“Why’d you move here?” Kibum, Minho’s best friend, pips up.

Junmyeon pushes through his bangs, peering at the new tall boy with limbs like an Air Dancer with interest.

Before Kris can even answer the question the kids’ attentions have now turned to Jonghyun who’s all but tumbled in and has an exciting story about the morning walk to school. Minho makes a beeline to him and most of the other students fizzle out into their assigned seats.

Junmyeon recedes behind his fringe, and before he turns his gaze away from the tall, new boy from Canada with limbs like an Air Dancer and eyes dark like his special graphite pencil set (he tries not to feel his shoulders sag at the thought of drawing Gundam Mobile Suit in his room with—), Junmyeon notices Kris’ mouth still opened, words on the tip of his tongue.

They fall on teeth biting on his lower lip.

Junmyeon lets his gaze linger a little longer on the new boy, but when Kris starts to turn his head, Junmyeon furiously gaps his lead canister and their homeroom teacher, Mrs. Im, steps in.

They’re assigned a partner worksheet for the day, but Junmyeon doesn’t want to focus on old men and their ridiculous voyages across uncharted seas and trade routes. Throughout the entire ordeal of Junmyeon struggling to understand the concept of Mongolian-European trade routes, Kris asks to borrow and eraser and when passing the white rubber, Junmyeon’s never felt so small in his life (as much as a seventh grader really can feel).

(As much as the smell of too sweet frozen yogurt that Junmyeon didn’t even like that much and the image of a too sweet smile from Minho get thrown to the farthest parts of his memory.)

* * *

His new roommate is a slender, pale boy with hair the shade of tea with the smallest splosh of milk in it. His roots are starting to poke out in a swirl at the back of his head and Junmyeon is vaguely reminded of spice swirl bread when he sees the back of Milk Tea Boy’s hair. 

Junmyeon meets him later in the week, right on the Thursday as Junseo said, with the weather just as stuffy as the Sunday’s. He’s collecting the mail at the communal mailboxes when he spies a boy with multiple boxes and only two arms. Milk Tea Boy’s flannel starts to droop dangerously low from his hips but before Junmyeon can even scurry over to help, he has his flannel tied again, gray hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black beanie beginning to slide off his head.

Junmyeon slides his mail under his left armpit and makes his way in front of Milk Tea Boy. Up close, he realizes that Milk Tea Boy is more or less the same height as Junmyeon.

“Would you mind some help?” Junmyeon asks, Milk Tea Boy looking confused as to why he’s in front of him. Junmyeon vaguely wonders if Milk Tea Boy is sizing him up. Junmyeon isn’t tall by any means, but he pushes the thought aside as he places his mail on top of a box and hoists up two in his arms.

“Well I can’t stop you now can I?” Milk Tea Boy laughs, childish and gleeful like how Junmyeon expects him to laugh at this age. “I’m Jongdae,”

Jongdae smiles and the corners of his mouth curl into a kittenish smile while his eyes fold into the lines that reminds Junmyeon of the lines on someone’s hands.

“Junmyeon.”

“Oh so _you’re_ my roommate!” Jongdae jabbers excitedly as they make their way into the elevator and Junmyeon is glad that one of the boxes is able to hide part of his face. They stand side by side in the elevator and Jongdae’s head moves with every detail of the fiasco getting to the complex it almost makes Junmyeon dizzy.

(Junmyeon vaguely remembers sitting on a bench beside Junseo and seeing a boy pretending to be Pikachu in their local park and his best friend laughing his ass off.)

Jongdae continues talking, asking Junmyeon about how long it’s been since he moved in, if he likes the place, what classes he’s taking: the usual. Jongdae is by every means polite and doesn’t pry and Junmyeon is thankful. Jongdae nods and smiles like he cares, and looks at Junmyeon’s eyes when they talk.

It looks a little bit ridiculous with the amount of boxes and items in Jongdae’s arms.

“I wonder if they have any bubble tea shops around here, know any?” Jongdae asks. It’s a fair question, nothing of importance and if Junmyeon had really been living here for two weeks he could possibly know.

But something cold settles in Junmyeon’s veins when he remembers the scent of milk tea and suddenly, the thought of cherry syrup stained tongue and lips and the scent of black tea.

He smiles, and resists the urge to laugh.

(Life’s a bitch.)

“I don’t actually, sorry.”

Jongdae lets out a knowing hum and the cold settles throughout Junmyeon’s bloodstream.

* * *

Jongdae is a lot of things.

Jongdae, unlike Junmyeon when he first moved in, settles right into the oak colored flooring and walnut countertops. After leaving his bags and boxes in his room, Jongdae immediately begins organizing their cupboards. Assuming that Jongdae would like his space, Junmyeon leans meekly against the breakfast bar. He fiddles with his cuticles as Jongdae silently moves the crackers Junmyeon had brought to the cupboard closer to the fridge. There’s a kettle thrown in there that Jongdae plugs into the wall socket. There’s a little rag that Jongdae leaves hooked onto the fridge handle and the countertops are cleaner than when Junmyeon first moved in. Unceremoniously in multiple swears after jamming his foot in the door frame to his room, Jongdae kicks up the dust Junmyeon has not bothered to clean up in the apartment.

They don’t have much of anything other than a kettle, some crackers, and some leftover takeout only enough for someone like Junmyeon to consider a full meal, so Jongdae takes it to himself to make a list.

The boy whips out his phone from his back pocket, the teal case sleek and stylish but protective. Junmyeon recognizes it as one that he’s seen on an online advertisement while browsing at an ungodly hour. Before he looks away, Junmyeon notices Jongdae’s lips pursed and scrunched like a duck while he’s busy opening up his note taking app. Junmyeon resists to comment on it, favoring remaining quiet and finding interest in picking at his nails.

Jongdae smiles as he starts thought-talking. Junmyeon can hear it.

As Junmyeon fades in and out of listening, he vaguely hears orange juice being thrown around, something about mint green tea, and a rice cooker. Jongdae starts thought-talking, and Junmyeon is vaguely reminded of bells when he hears the smile in the younger’s voice.

Jongdae doesn’t stop thought-talking, and Junmyeon doesn’t question it. The boy’s voice is soothing, high pitched and sweet in the ways Junmyeon finds akin to the chilling tingles left behind a sip of mint tea. (Junmyeon doesn’t question it.) Jongdae muses about the apartment, more than Junmyeon ever did before he moved in and when he did eventually.

Jongdae asks about Junmyeon’s allergies, to which the latter responds that he has none while still looking down at his fingernails. When the instance passes, Junmyeon feels a flare of worry set alight on his skin when he wonders if Jongdae felt rejected with Junmyeon’s minimal answers and input. If he were honest, he’d be fine with surviving on what he knows. Jongdae mentions going down to the store to get pillows and blankets and a utensil set. A set of cheap knives to get them by when they want to cook, Jongdae reasons despite Junmyeon humming noncommittally.

When they’re somewhere around laundry detergent and dryer sheets, and the boy is still thought-talking to himself, Jongdae looks up at him and clicks his tongue, “Sorry, that was annoying right?”

“As long as you can sort out your thoughts, it’s fine I think.” Junmyeon replies as he still, doesn’t look up from where he’s begun to pick at the loose threads on his sweater.

Then Jongdae laughs and if Junmyeon were religious he may have compared it to the angels’ choir or the sound of the church bells on someone’s wedding day.

If Junmyeon were religious, he may have looked up to Jesus himself and asked why the fuck he agreed to housing Milk Tea Boy. He would have also asked why he feels like the floor is grabbing at his shoulders, doing all it can to force him down to the floor so he can never get up again.

But Junmyeon is not religious.

Jongdae’s laugh is not the sound of angels singing nor is it the sound of the wedding march.

It is merely the laugh of a kittenish boy who intends to live here.

* * *

They go grocery shopping the second Jongdae is finished with the list. He asks Junmyeon to give the list a onceover, but Junmyeon merely scans it before they head out. Junmyeon feels his chest begin to burn when he wonders if Jongdae is bothered by his nature and wobbles out of the apartment. Reaching down to tie the laces on his shoes, he lets out a spluttering breathe.

Jongdae trots out, humming a poppy ballad tune that reminds Junmyeon of the beach and ice cream melting too fast and the wind blowing sand in their faces and sea salt on lips and the scent of sunscreen sticking to eyelashes.

Junmyeon looks up, and a kittenish smile and eyes creased into half moons is reflected back to him.

“Ready to go?” Jongdae asks, pocketing their key.

Junmyeon replies with a definitive hum, and Jongdae speed walks to the elevator in a flurry of double checking their list while texting back some friends.

“I really thought it would be lonely living up here,” Jongdae says softly when the elevator doors close and his phone screen is turned off. “But thank you for allowing me to stay with you.”

It takes a moment for Junmyeon to form the words to respond, but when he does he nearly coughs on his own saliva and manages to choke out, “It’s fine.”

Jongdae turns to look to Junmyeon, his eyebrows slanted downwards as Junmyeon sees a lower lip get bitten by front teeth and Junmyeon suddenly remembers maple syrup and moose.

“Really, it’s fine.” Junmyeon reassures (he hopes it’s reassuring) as he runs a hand through his hair and makes way to scratch at the nape of his neck.

That seems to pacify whatever is causing Jongdae’s eyebrows to slant so glumly and lips to be bitten and Junmyeon tells himself he couldn’t (shouldn’t) be bothered by his kittenish roommate who seems too content shopping for basically one. 

(Junmyeon decides it’ll be one.)

Junmyeon tells himself this as they pass through the aisles, eyeing things he wonders if they would be good to eat. He could not be bothered as they pass through the ice cream aisle and Jongdae decides to buy Neapolitan and Junmyeon takes a moment to stare at the ice fruit bars. He could not be bothered when Jongdae asks him offhandedly how often he eats at home. 

(To which he replies sometimes, maybe four times a week if he was stretching the truth just a bit too far.)

He could not be bothered when Jongdae looks up at him expectedly to grab something, anything, to put in the cart. Junmyeon, feeling suddenly caught in an act of misconduct, decides to pick the fruit ice bars. Jongdae seems satisfied when they go to self checkout and Junmyeon designates himself as the scanner while Jongdae bags the groceries.

His eyes glance over possibly all the vegetables in the produce section, some herbs, obligatory cup ramen, and other instant curry blocks. He looks to Jongdae as they go through scanning, and Jongdae smiles.

“Ah, this? Well, I’m not that great of a cook. So we’ll have to deal with a lot of Japanese curry for now.” He scratches the back of his head and laughs airily, as if he really could have no worries in this world other than the fact that he can’t cook.

Junmyeon feels the corners of his mouth curl. 

(And his chest cavity opens a little more and suddenly some of the pressure is gone.)

“It’s fine.”

* * *

Over the course of the next few weeks, Jongdae ends up buying all of the needed supplies for the life they’re supposed to live in the apartment. He organizes their cupboards, makes lists and buys a whiteboard for their fridge with a small marker that Jongdae waves around enthusiastically one day, when Junmyeon gives him a questioning look. 

“Write down whatever you want, it’s cute right?” Jongdae smiles and Junmyeon almost shuts his eyes from it’s brightness. He feels his face grow warm and he mumbles an affirmation.

“Yeah, it’s cute.” He says softly after realizing that Jongdae wouldn’t need much to be content. 

Junmyeon doesn’t quite understand why someone would need to run it by him. Most of the time he’s left to simply affirm Jongdae’s questions and the whiteboard doesn’t change that. Jongdae writes on the board, puts a list on his phone, and still texts Junmyeon that he was going to buy the energy efficient lightbulbs that Junmyeon only recognizes as the “soft serve yogurt ones” but Jongdae never questions him.

Junmyeon declines Jongdae’s invitations to go shopping most of the time, and resigns himself to doing the housekeeping. It’s the least he could do, he rationalizes one day as he’s cleaning the floor, and suddenly, he remembers that Jongdae bought the rags that they use. He remembers Jongdae talking fast like he always does when he’s excited even if it were just recycled cloth. 

Noting all of the new appliances and organization, Junmyeon pays Jongdae half before it even occurs to the boy.

(What Jongdae never knows is that Junmyeon feels a swell of pride that flushes his chest when he shows Jongdae a new phone application so they can split bills easier.)

Jongdae discovers the Asian market a few blocks down from where they live, and when Jongdae comes home one day with stars in his eyes, Junmyeon laughs. Jongdae’s got his hair in tangles from rushing down the hall to their apartment and his shoes thrown haphazardly in their makeshift foyer with the little mats Jongdae had bought (“Sorry but I’m really lazy and hate cleaning the floors.” Jongdae had teased one day as Junmyeon gave a noncommittal grunt to the state of their foyer.) and had promptly yelled “There’s an H-Mart!”

“Y…yeah?” Junmyeon snorts, putting his cup of tea down. 

(Afternoon tea is plain green tea, Jongdae had teased that he was a grandpa, Junmyeon wonders why he didn’t laugh then)

Jongdae sighs with a sound of relief and Junmyeon looks at him quizzically. It’s the first time, Junmyeon realizes, that he’s looked closely at Jongdae.

Jongdae’s roots are jet black, jet black like the plumage of the many crows that litter the city. He hasn’t dyed his hair still and the Milk Tea Color is turning more brassy than brown. Junmyeon’s eyes glance over Jongdae’s jaw and notices a small mole on the right side. The boy is pale, but there’s a pigment in his skin that reminds Junmyeon of spray on sunscreen melting away in the summer rainshowers. 

“This means we can get a rice cooker!” Jongdae exclaims, as he continues on about buying a water boiler because “boiling water in the pot takes too damn long!”

Junmyeon has never bothered to walk far enough to get to the Asian supermarket that Jongdae is beginning to make shopping lists about, but he doesn’t mind the exercise, he could use the blood circulation. The following day, Jongdae all but drags Junmyeon to the store in the pure excitement of eating some food that feels like home.

They have fun walking around the produce aisle, which they don’t spend much time around and Junmyeon decides to let Jongdae discover that indeed, the Freshman Fifteen is a truth and not a myth. They pick up some food from the ready-made section and Junmyeon reads the news while Jongdae debates between two brands of kimchi before deciding that ultimately, his mom’s was the best but they’ll have to settle with one of them.

Walking past the seafood section, Jongdae asks if he wants any tea as he motions to one of the aisles that leads down the dried items. He looks expectantly, as if waiting for Junmyeon to step out of his shell, more so than he already has. (Junmyeon decides to humor the boy) Junmyeon mumbles something about mint green tea.

Jongdae hums in replies. They go like that for the rest of the trip, Jongdae asking if Junmyeon wants anything and with a five second buffering, Junmyeon replies with another small item: rice crackers.

“Such an oldie,” Jongdae coos as Junmyeon strategically picks the cheapest choice from the array of different rice cracker brands. He chooses the ones that come in pairs in pre-packaged servings that taste like shrimp.

Junmyeon feels something settle at the bottom of his stomach when they load the conveyor belt in silence. He feels something twitch in his arm when he stands silently as Jongdae makes chatter with the granny at the cash register. He vaguely wonders if Jongdae actually cares about the tiny pineapple that the granny has in her fridge and is going to eat tonight but the thought flies away when Jongdae bumps his elbow and Junmyeon quickly slides his card.

Junmyeon is still silent when they wait at the bus stop, arms growing heavy from the bags dangling at his ankles.

Jongdae laughs lightly and Junmyeon turns his face to him.

“I really wish I could’ve seen that tiny pineapple,” Jongdae laughs and he tells Junmyeon about the time he came across a package of strawberries all the size of the top of his thumb.

Something warm spreads over Junmyeon’s cheeks and when they board the bus and Jongdae begins to nod off before they reach their stop and can get back to the apartment.

Junmyeon packs all the food and appliances away while Jongdae melts into the countertop at the breakfast bar. He asks the boy every once in awhile where he wants some of the items, like Jongdae’s choice of marinated baby anchovies to which Jongdae mumbles on the top shelf.

Junmyeon washes their new bowls that, once again, Jongdae had picked out. There’s a set of five white rice bowls, five larger blue soup bowls, and ten small plates that Junmyeon could only assume were for copious amounts of snacks. Jongdae also bought a few mugs with the excuse of feeding into Junmyeon’s oldie tendencies. Though the smile Jongdae has when he holds a mug with painted orchids on it is one Junmyeon is sure for something more than mint tea in their apartment. 

As he runs them under hot water to remove the price sticker, Jongdae’s breathing begins to even out and Junmyeon tells to brush his teeth and go to bed.

It’s nice, Junmyeon thinks as Jongdae yawns and uncurls himself. He stretches and bids Junmyeon goodnight and Junmyeon likes it. Jongdae wobbles to the bathroom and when he hears the water running, Junmyeon feels the hot water run cool under his hands.

* * *

Junmyeon and Jongdae spend a lot of time in the apartment.

There are less and less days that Junmyeon goes on without using his voice, and one day, when he’s brushing his teeth, he glances over at Jongdae’s purple toothbrush sitting in his lime green rinse cup, and almost chokes on his toothpaste,

Jongdae yells from his room if he’s alright, and Junmyeon splutters yes before briefly swearing. He hears Jongdae cackle and Junmyeon lets out a sigh.

That night, Junmyeon lingers longer in the bathroom than expected, and he runs into Jongdae when he opens the door. Jongdae’s flushed red on his cheeks and he stutters a brief apology for scaring Junmyeon.

“It just got a little creepy being all silent there. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t fall asleep or anything in there,” Jongdae mutters as Junmyeon struggles to form the words to reply and instead stands dumbly with his mouth open.

“But you’re _not_ asleep, haha,” Jongdae laughs as he snaps his fingers and forms a peace sign. “Sorry for scarin’ ya.”

“Y-yeah…” Junmyeon replies awkwardly, but before the situation can progress, Jongdae bids him a good night and retreats to his room.

Junmyeon is left there, in the flurry of Jongdae’s wake, mostly confused and partially winded. While Jongdae is amicable, Junmyeon comes to understand that he can rarely ever understand fully what his roommate his saying. 

(He vaguely remembers hearing Junseo talk about the Kims about what seemed like a lifetime ago and their younger son that talked at a mile a minute.) 

He rinses his mouth one more time and leaves the restroom. He passes by Jongdae’s room with the door closed and a part of him wants to knock but he doesn’t know what he would do afterwards. He bites his lip, frustrated, because Jongdae is too friendly, too nice, and Junmyeon can’t understand what he’s saying most of the time. 

But he raises raises a white flag, and leaves Jongdae’s door in peace. 

It happens again, one morning when Jongdae asks to try Junmyeon’s tea, it suddenly occurs to him that he’s interacted more with Jongdae in the span of a few weeks than he has with any of his roommates back at the sophomore dorm.

Junmyeon has just woken up, bedhead and stale breath his morning companions, when he finds Jongdae fiddling on his phone while eating scrambled eggs straight out of the pan.

(“It was supposed to be an omelette, shut up.” Jongdae whines when he notices Junmyeon’s amused expression.)

He’s roughly boiled his water and when he unceremoniously dunks the tea bag in and stretches across the counter while it steeps. He lets out a low groan as he waits for the caffeine to get his brain to function. Looking up, Junmyeon notices Jongdae glaring.

For a moment he wonders if he committed a wrong, but when he stands up he realizes that Jongdae is not staring at him so much as the tea steeping innocently.

(Junmyeon quickly shakes his head, shoving the thoughts at the back of his head.)

“Want some?” Junmyeon asks, the end of his words trailing off.

“You drink that like you’re going to church every Sunday.” Jongdae replies with his lips scrunched as if in contemplative thought.

“I don’t go to church,” Junmyeon mutters as he grabs the handle and lifts the warm cup to his lips. He takes a small slurp, testing the waters to make sure it won’t scald his tongue.

“You’re probably more loyal to that tea than all of the Jesus-people I know.” Jongdae says, shoving the last piece of his eggs into his mouth.

Junmyeon raises his eyebrows at the boy, hoping for further information on the “Jesus-people”, but Jongdae makes no effort to reply to Junmyeon, or his eyebrows.

“Well, are you gonna have some?” Junmyeon asks again.

Jongdae waves his hands forward to motion Junmyeon to give it to him. When he hands the box to him, the latter squints at the flavoring, wondering if this too “will make him a little granny” like Junmyeon himself. Jongdae waddles into the kitchen, places his pan in the sink and makes his own cup of tea.

Junmyeon lets him.

The tea isn’t cheap and only has ten packages. He’s most likely sure Jongdae will dump it down their sink drain after a sip. He’s also sure that Jongdae will end up hating tea after this.

He’s sure that Jongdae won’t enjoy this type of tea or any tea in general. Jongdae always gets the sweetest shaved ice boba drink at the store, eats red bean paste instead of the bun it came in, there’s no way Jongdae would spare bitter mint tea a glance. 

(There’s no way he would spare it a chance.)

Despite that, he lets the boy, whom he’s barely known for a few weeks, dunk a teabag in some water and nearly smiles at the expression on his face as he waits for the tea to steep.

They wait in silence as Junmyeon finishes his cup and opens a packet of breakfast crackers, also excitedly bought by Jongdae the moment Junmyeon so much as glanced at them in the aisle on another one of their shopping trips.

The tea isn’t cheap, but he lets the boy do as he pleases. He momentarily wants to explain himself, but he finds it troublesome, almost daunting to not let Jongdae try his tea.

Jongdae loses his patience as he blows over the top of the water and takes a deep sip, which promptly results in a swear and scalded tongue. 

Junmyeon covers a laugh as Jongdae gets some cold water from the tap and swishes it around in his mouth.

Jongdae grimaces every time he brings the cup to his lips, and tentatively laps the top surface like a dog every time before he takes a sip.

“Not your cup of tea?” Junmyeon says, and Jongdae rolls his eyes, his eyebrows furrowing and Junmyeon almost wants to wink.

“No, but I’m finishing this shit.” Jongdae grumbles. He shakes his head and forcefully shudders as a he takes a gulp. “This is definitely some Sunday church shit man.”

Junmyeon doesn’t understand what Jongdae exactly means, but he also doesn’t understand why he genuinely smiles into his tea cup afterwards.

As he watches Jongdae take swigs from the cup, Junmyeon takes his attention to the tea box. 

The tea was expensive, and now there are only eight packets in the box now.

But there are two used tea bags in the trash and Junmyeon decides that he can settle for a cheaper brand.

Today is the first day they’ve had breakfast together.

* * *

With the school year not yet in full thrust, Junmyeon has little excuse not to spend his days around the apartment. His barista job at the campus Starbucks doesn’t begin again until the school year starts, so he’s mostly at home glossing over internships and burning his retinas with anime.

While Jongdae calls his friends and goes out at night and returns smelling like fried food and sweat. Sitting against the wall of his room with his laptop on his thighs, Junmyeon has made a nice imprint of his ass in the carpet flooring. They don’t have much of any furniture and Junmyeon doesn’t find sitting on the floor that much of a bother, and he hasn’t noticed the imprint anyways.

They don’t have a television set, but neither of them mind when they spend most of the time streaming things from their laptops at odd hours of the night. As the older one, Junmyeon wonders if he should be allowing Jongdae to indulge himself in so many trashy romance dramas late at night. However, when Jongdae nearly gives him a heart attack after wobbling into his room one day in the middle of a Cowboy Bebop binge, Junmyeon finds that he really isn’t in any position to scold.

“We need beds.” Jongdae says, matter of fact, despite struggling to keep his eyes open. “I’m gonna murder someone with our cactus if we don’t get real beds.”

The cactus in question is their house plant (named Carl the Cactus, of course, by Jongdae) Jongdae had bought from a street vendor one day and promptly fallen in love with. He’d even developed a watering schedule that rotated between the two of them. There was a timetable and everything stuck under a magnet on the fridge.

(Though the times he does open the fridge himself are rare, he hopes Jongdae doesn’t notice the visits are purely to check on Carl’s watering.)

“Don’t taint Carl like that,” Junmyeon deadpans as Jongdae flops onto Junmyeon’s entire mattress on his stomach. He groans and Junmyeon has to remind himself this isn’t a porno.

“I’m crashing here tonight. Fuck my sleeping bag in the literal asshole.”

“You’re a real charmer,” Junmyeon mumbles from his spot against the wall. Sure, his laptop burns his thighs sometimes, and sure, his back hurts on occasion. But, he hadn’t thought much of the lack of desks and beds, more importantly, hadn’t cared. He spent most of his time in the library anyways and only returned to the dorms to sleep. He almost tilts his head in confusion at Jongdae’s irritation.

“I totally am,” Jongdae says, his voice muffled by his face stuffed into the comforters. “Carl loves me. That’s all I need. Comforters can go fuck themselves. Box spring? Who needs that shit, I’ll just get laid on the carpet.” 

Flailing his arms and legs in an exaggerated fashion, Jongdae continues by gurgling incoherently in a release of frustration.

Junmyeon lets out a half-snort and a laugh, and Jongdae snaps up from his place on the bed. His hair is disheveled, and his t-shirt is of a musical artist Junmyeon doesn’t recognize. Jongdae’s face is red and blotchy from face planting in Junmyeon’s mattress and his cotton flannel pants look more like a giant skirt than actual pants.

Despite this, Junmyeon finds his cheeks burning at the prospect of direct eye contact with the boy.

“You laughed.” Jongdae says softly, the beginning of his words light and soft like how worn and soft his cotton flannel pants look. His voice sounds worn, worn like Junmyeon’s the peeling leather at the bottom of his backpack.

“Yeah,” Junmyeon mumbles as he tears his eyes away from the boy and continues to browse the internet for a show his eyes can focus on instead.

He can feel Jongdae staring at him still, and to break the silence, Junmyeon asks if Jongdae wants to watch with him. Jongdae nods, and motions for Junmyeon to come over to the bed. 

Junmyeon gives him a questioning look and when Jongdae whines, “You’re the older one.” Junmyeon has to resist a smile. He hands Jongdae his laptop before maneuvering onto the bed.

From the browsing page Jongdae picks out a slice-of-life show about high school girls in a light music club and while it isn’t what Junmyeon would typically pick, he still ends up settling beside Jongdae on his twin mattress.

They’re on their stomachs, blankets shoved to the end of the mattress where Junmyeon’s pillows are. In their bunched up heap against the wall, Junmyeon might’ve felt exposed. Junmyeon’s in sport shorts and when he feels the soft cloth of Jongdae’s pajama bottoms; he briefly wonders how it must feel to have something fit so nicely on your body.

Jongdae whines about how cute the show is every time the main character eats a piece of cake. The girls drink tea after school and Jongdae laughs and teases Junmyeon, claiming that he’s the missing member of the club.

Junmyeon lets out a breath and a soft laugh and the show’s pastel color scheme begins to blur in his eyesight.

He closes his eyes after a while and decides that he can catch up with the plot after a few minutes of rest.

The last scent he remembers is Jongdae’s peach body wash, and the next thing he knows, it’s morning and Junmyeon has a crick in his neck and Jongdae, Jongdae is sleeping soundly next to him with his face turned to the wall. 

His laptop is dead and he’s careful to slide off the mattress quietly, as to not wake Jongdae.

* * *

The morning of their anime marathon (or lack thereof), Jongdae all but drags Junmyeon to the furniture store.

They buy desks and a couch that doesn’t heave when someone sits on it and nice swivel chairs with back support.

Junmyeon merely serves as the finalizing decision when Jongdae looks at him for any sense of approval, but for the most part, Jongdae has it all covered. The sales assistants flock to him and they chatter about all the nonsensical things that make Junmyeon’s fingers grow antsy.

“Should we get a different laundry detergent?” Jongdae asks earnestly as the sales assistant is finalizing their purchases and preparing the delivery paperwork for Junmyeon to comb through.

Junmyeon stares at him momentarily before opening his mouth to ask almost dumbly, “What?”

“Detergent.” Jongdae repeats, as if that will clear up any confusion left in Junmyeon’s mind. When Junmyeon doesn’t respond after a few seconds, Jongdae elaborates.

“You’ve been scratching at your elbows for a while.” Jongdae says softly, obviously taking the care not to make it loud enough for the sales assistant to hear.

“It’s nothing.” Junmyeon replies as he fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket, and despite the burning on his inner arm, tries his hardest not to touch it again after Jongdae returns to chatting with the sales assistant.

Junmyeon notices Jongdae’s kittenish smile turning more into a snarl as the nonsensical talk begins to drag on.

Junmyeon takes a deep breath and signs on the dotted lines, initials in the boxes, and soon they are on their merry way home.

That night, Jongdae cooks his famous Japanese curry, and the whole apartment is filled with the aroma of meat and potatoes and onions. Junmyeon’s tired from the day outside, and he feels his stomach gurgle when he wanders to the breakfast bar where they usually eat.

Jongdae usually lets Junmyeon serve himself, but today there is a bowl of half rice and half curry set out for him, complete with a set of chopsticks, and Junmyeon suddenly feels acid flood his stomach.

He sits down on the stool as Jongdae leans on the other side eating his dinner off the counter. Jongdae’s almost a fourth into his meal while Junmyeon tentatively bites at the onions in the curry mixture.

“Do you like the chicken?” Jongdae asks, wiping his mouth as he looks at Junmyeon expectantly.

Junmyeon hasn’t touched any part of the meat of the meal.

He lifts a piece with his chopsticks, and takes a small bite, nodding as Jongdae looks at him with worry.

“Are you okay?” Jongdae asks, genuine as he sets his pair of chopsticks down and Junmyeon freezes. Junmyeon pokes at his rice and without looking, sees the open arms and the kittenish smile. He smells the peach body wash and remembers the mint tea bag in the trash. He remembers the last shopping expedition they ventured on and Jongdae took whatever Junmyeon’s eyes looked at in the store regardless of price and asked if he wanted it. Junmyeon would shake his head most of the time and Jongdae accepted it.

Jongdae has accepted a lot of things, Junmyeon realizes that night, with curry-rice getting cold in front of him and his face and neck growing hotter.

Jongdae is open, Jongdae is ready, but Junmyeon feels his stomach constrict and the chicken in his mouth has been ground to wood pulp.

He doesn’t open his mouth to respond, and instead runs to the restroom.

His eyes pass the purple toothbrush in its lime green cup.

He pukes into the white porcelain, his knees hugging the toilet and grinding into the tile. He tastes acid as his frame shudders with every time his body jerks to the rhythm of vomiting and he wonders if a lung will come up if he keeps going like this.

He gasps for breath, which he wonders if it sounds like sobbing from outside. He feels guilt root itself in the pit of his stomach as he wonders how Jongdae must feel. Probably like shit, he reasons, and agrees with as well.

Junmyeon flushes the toilet, rinses his mouth, and brushes his teeth.

He practices his apology to Jongdae on his tentative journey back to the kitchen.

When he sees the back of Jongdae rinsing the dishes and his own plate nowhere to be seen on the breakfast bar counter, Junmyeon swallows. However, his throat remains dry afterwards.

“I’m sorry.” Junmyeon says, and he feels his chest tighten as he notices Jongdae visibly jolt from the shock. “Your food was great, I just felt a little sick.”

“You don’t have to lie, Junmyeon,” Jongdae replies, taking off his rubber gloves while leaning against the sink. Junmyeon tries not to feel his chest contract and constrict at the sound of Jongdae’s soft tone. “You didn’t eat any of it, it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry, it really wasn’t your food. I was just a little sick, I’ll be fine tomorrow.” Junmyeon says quickly, hoping that Jongdae will stop talking and he can go to his room and fall asleep and tomorrow they will have breakfast again. (He lingers over the thought of breakfast crackers and he wonders if he can stomach those tomorrow)

“Is that why you were tense today? At the furniture store?” Jongdae asks. He’s encouraging; he’s done this before. He wants Junmyeon to open up. He’s willing, he wouldn’t be judgmental. He’s so goddamn _caring_ and Junmyeon can no longer avoid the terrible acid that sloshes around Junmyeon’s insides at the thought of how he’s a burden to a boy that’s _younger_ than him. Jongdae doesn’t _have_ to do this. Jongdae shouldn’t be cooking dinner, he shouldn’t be making lists that Junmyeon can’t bother to care about and oh god—

Something shifts in Junmyeon’s body and his left shoulder seems to go numb as Junmyeon’s eyes start to water and he’s trying to take in deep breaths but he can’t he can’t, he can’t—

Something deconstructs Junmyeon’s body and slams his particles all back together and he can’t remember the last time he did any sort of science but he knows that nuclear fusion rarely fucks up. But oh god, he _feels_ fucked up.

He feels like _he_ fucked up.

There’s curry rice somewhere in the trash and Jongdae is all but willing to talk things out; he’s not mad and he’s inviting and Junmyeon _can’t do it._

So he stands there, rooted to his spot and the sweat between his toes makes the carpet feel tingly underneath his feet.

Jongdae rushes to him and Junmyeon looks away and Jongdae tries to rub his shoulder and give comfort but it all falls short of Junmyeon’s ears as they maneuver to Junmyeon’s bed. 

Jongdae wraps his arms around Junmyeon’s shoulders and he feels his face flare in heated embarrassment at how small his shoulders. He swears up and down when he feels Jongdae’s arms perfectly fit around him because he hates it. He hates his small shoulders, his bones that could be snapped like a pencil by anyone if they wanted to. He hates how he fits so perfectly underneath the canopy of Jongdae’s arms because goddamnit, he doesn’t deserve this. 

Neither of them do.

In his heated anger at himself, Jongdae, and everything, Junmyeon looks away as he refuses to Despite wanting to bury his face into the crook of Jongdae’s neck and hold onto him because there’s nothing else to hold onto, Junmyeon stares straight into the wall.

Tears fall horizontal on his face and some leak onto Jongdae’s loose pajama shirt.

Junmyeon covers his face with his hands and removes himself from Jongdae’s arms.

Between gasps of breath and through his dry itchy eyes, Junmyeon orders Jongdae to go finish the dishes and before Jongdae can protest, he almost yells it.

Jongdae leaves his room.

The suffocating warmth of Jongdae’s arms lingers and Junmyeon feels like he’s an oven.

Despite that, he wishes the boy were still here.

But as he buries himself under crudely arranged comforters, he reminds himself that Jongdae is still just a boy who intends to live here.

* * *

Junmyeon doesn’t talk much to the boy from the land of moose and maple syrup yet, he knows quite a bit about him.

His lunch periods were spent mostly with his neighbor and long-time friend, Kyuhyun, along with his friends. Despite the group being in a grade higher than him, they don’t mind and have always had Junmyeon tag along.

Junmyeon found himself nestling into the quiet box of ‘addition’ and they all treat him warmly. They include him and Kyuhyun still acts warmly towards him in choir—the only period they have together.

Though their actions do nothing to compete with the worries Junmyeon had about bothering them.

So Junmyeon had departed from them. There was not much to do or say about it, and though Kyuhyun had asked him about it the first few times it occurred where he was not at their regular table during the lunch period, eventually the elder left it.

Junmyeon is thankful, for he was starting to get nervous whenever he was around Kyuhyun and his friends.

And that is how he finds himself generally loitering around the basketball courts, walking around the edge of the grass field while waving to anyone who greeted him and watched the other students play.

He learns that the mysterious brooding boy from Canada is an exceptional player. In hindsight, defeating eighth grade students in a game of blacktop basketball isn’t much of any accomplishment, but Junmyeon then, as small as a seventh grader really _could_ be, was awestruck.

(Almost as awestruck as the first time he saw Minho play club soccer and sat beside his mom and they cheered from the stands. Junmyeon remembers that he was the first one Minho hugged after the game had ended. Junmyeon remembers something warm and solid sinking down his throat that day.

In hindsight, he finds that the warmth had completely disappeared after a while after the game.

But he also finds that the moment the strange boy from the land of moose, maple syrup, and snow, it had returned.)

* * *

The apartment is mostly silent the night after the incident (though Junmyeon isn’t quite sure what to call it.)

Jongdae avoids him like the plague, or maybe Junmyeon avoids Jongdae like the plague, Junmyeon isn’t so sure. 

Junmyeon wakes up at the odd times of day and at all of those times, Jongdae is out of the apartment. He makes his tea and when feels his stomach clench at the scent of mint and matcha he remembers a failed omelette being eaten out of a pan and his eyes suddenly begin to burn.

He remembers the feeling of Jongdae’s arms around him and feels dread caress the inside of his stomach and he almost waves a greeting to it. He reasons that he can’t depend on Jongdae forever, that eventually this would have happened, that eventually, Junmyeon would have had the breakdown that he always feared he would have in front of someone and that this is, this is--

He cries.

He loses all of the will and ability to prop himself against the counter and instead shrinks against the cool wood of the sink cabinet. He sinks his head into the cradle of his knees and arms and--

He cries.

He thanks himself for doing the greatest fucking greeting he’s ever given someone he’s met. He thanks himself for letting Jongdae know he likes mint green tea because now he can’t stomach the idea of drinking it without his normal companion there with him.

He cries.

He screams at his brother in his head, curses at him, punches him even. Junmyeon isn’t muscular by any means, and is shorter than Junseo, but in his head where all the most irrational things happen, he rationalizes that he could be at least once, allowed to punch his brother right in the fucking face. 

He cries.

He lifts his head out of his knees and looks to the cup placed on the counter and remembers the cashier with the tiny pineapple and Jongdae falling asleep on the bus.

He remembers Jongdae’s head lolling to the side and Junmyeon remembers _liking_ the feeling and his chest hardens in anger.

He chokes on his own mucus and snot. He suddenly feels that the kitchen tiles are the floor of his prison and when he tries to swallow he can’t feel the moisture of his spit anymore and he begins to choke. There’s every will in him to move and get water and perhaps dunk his entire head under ice water but the synapses don’t get communicated and Junmyeon is _stuck_. 

He cries.

And he doesn’t know why.

* * *

The boy from the land of moose, snow, and maple syrup is a lot of things Junmyeon has never experienced before.

Junmyeon doesn’t have any idea what to say when he sees him, the Air Dancer with the long legs and pensive gaze, standing outside of the bathroom stall

“Kris.” the boy says, and Junmyeon realizes that the boy probably doesn’t either. 

“Yeah,” Junmyeon says, pitching his voice higher and walking over to the sinks. Kris hasn’t moved from his spot in front of the stall, but Junmyeon pays more attention to the water flushing out of the faucet than him at this point. “Uh, we sit next to each other in Mrs. Im’s class.”

“Mrs…”

“History.” Junmyeon informs as he takes a paper towel. His hands are wet not so much as from the sink, but from the sweat that’s beginning to make him clammy. Kris is tall, so very tall and it instills a fear inside Junmyeon that makes him want to fall onto his knees and bow his neck downwards and wait for the storm to pass. 

“Oh righ--right,” Kris says, his feet sowed into the ground as Junmyeon tries to flash a smile his way. “Sorry I don’t really know my schedule and--”

“No worries!” Junmyeon pushes forth a laugh and widens his smile as he tosses the paper towel. “You’re new still right? I see you play basketball and it’s so cool like shwoong!” Junmyeon makes the motion of dunking with his hands. It’s a feeble attempt, he knows, but he could care less about how stupid he looks (though in hindsight, even at his age now, he still thinks he looks stupid anyways)

His hands start to sweat again and Junmyeon feels impossibly small in the restroom as Kris continues to look at him, long and intrusive as Junmyeon tries to wave away any sort of impressions with his terrible basketball impressions.

“It was nice seeing you arou--” Junmyeon starts on his way to leave the restroom.

“I know what you’re doing.” Kris cuts him off and Junmyeon’s feet grow still. “I-I mean, you know, like, kids at my old school did it and--”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Junmyeon snaps, his words fast and barely put together. He’s surprised that he can even string together that many words. 

“I’m just saying that you look fine! Or whatever! Just don’t do it!” Kris bites back, taken aback by Junmyeon’s sudden anger. 

“You think I care about that stuff?” Junmyeon snorts back, angered that Kris thinks he can suddenly read Junmyeon.

“Well what else then?” Kris sighs, exasperated at Junmyeon’s uncalled for defensiveness. “Look, I’m just saying I knew some people that did this and they ended up...bad--like _fucked up_.”

The air grows still, because Junmyeon is still so small, and Kris is still too big and the entire restroom wants to swallow them whole.

“I don’t _want_ to do this--” Junmyeon starts.

“I know but--”

“Would you let me _finish_?!” Junmyeon almost screams. He’s been cut off too often, cut off by himself. In hindsight, he finds that he was always cut off really. He wants to explain, he wants to outline it all out, make it a diagram complete with color coding. 

Junmyeon isn’t sure when it had happened.

(When one day he woke up and he suddenly felt inclined to rid his body of whatever was inside of him—perhaps to remove whatever was causing him to feel this way. When one day he couldn’t stomach anything anymore and suddenly everything made him nauseous.)

But it happens, and Junmyeon isn’t quite sure what to do.

He generally makes his own breakfast, and begins to lie when his mother arrives downstairs to drive him to school that yes, he did eat well. She packs him snacks, too many even, for Junmyeon to consume in one break period or even a full day at school—that’s what he tells himself at least,

He holds his bile inwards until the ride to school is over (Junmyeon is one of the few sleepy students wandering on campus right when the gates had opened. Always has been, he finds. He’s always been nervous about being on time.)

He wanders through campus and his feet bring him to the restrooms. The sound of shoving a stall door rings in his ears as his knees eat the tiles and his forearms rest on the toilet seat. His body jolts and jerks and he doesn’t know what could possibly come up at this point, but a small part of him hopes that some part of it is whatever made his hands shake so often and took away his breath.

The first time, he downs half of his water bottle to get out the taste of acid of his mouth and thoroughly washes his face in the sink.

But Junmyeon finds himself frequenting the same stall and the same restroom off the side of the library entrance many more mornings, and soon, every morning.

His knees soon grow calloused at hitting tiles every morning and he has a permanent closure to his frame (because he’s ready, oh so ready, to expel whatever is inside of him that’s causing this)

He grows used to it, like most of the things in his life, and soon considers it routine.

It is all routine until one day, Junmyeon nearly vomits on pure instinct when he sees the boy from the land of maple syrup, moose, and snow as he’s leaving the bathroom stall.

“I just was feeling sick, alright?” Junmyeon sighs.

Kris looks at him, incredulous and apprehensive with his eyebrows fully raised. His tan skin looks sickly underneath the dim lighting of the restroom, and Junmyeon wonders how he himself must look.

“I had a weird breakfast, some new herbal tea my mom was trying out.” He tries to laugh. “You know how it is right?” He hopes he gets something in Kris to understand. 

Junmyeon’s face hardens into a toothy grin and he gives off a laugh. 

Kris looks at him in disbelief, but sighs instead. He readjusts his hoodie and knapsack and walks out of the restroom.

“Californians...I really don’t get you all.” 

Junmyeon doesn’t stop smiling until the door is shut.

He rinses his mouth with water from the tap. 

His heartbeat matches with the pit-pat of his feet as he walks out.

* * *

Over the course of the week, they acquire new house plants. 

(Junmyeon doesn’t realize it’s a week until he takes a closer look at the time table.)

Jongdae adds their names to the time table stuck on the fridge and Junmyeon is careful to note their names on the fridge when he goes to the kitchen to make tea throughout the week. The names are still written in a fast and bubbly style, the way Junmyeon would expect Jongdae’s voice to look if voices could be translated into writing styles. 

They have Ally the Aloe Vera and Chris the Cactus now. 

Ally only has to be watered once a week and Chris is on the same schedule as Carl, according to the time table and an internet search by Junmyeon.

Why he’s on Google looking up how often an aloe vera plant has to be watered is barely understandable to Junmyeon, but he does it anyways.

(His hands don’t shake as much when he waters them.)

He looks up the best way to take care of an aloe vera plant, because he knows they’re harder to take care of than cacti after more Google binges. He adds to the timetable and makes a little family. Ally has yet to have a sibling, but Carl and Chris are the official twins of the apartment. Ally acts as the eldest and Junmyeon almost laughs one day when he’s checking the time table and sees that it’s Jongdae’s responsibility to water next week. 

(The apartment is lonely.)

 

He slams the apartment door once three heartbeats pass, locks it before another one can begin. His heartbeat echoes throughout his whole body, the thump crawling through all of his veins and capillaries as it covers the ringing. Soon the ringing and the thumping are one and the same and Junmyeon His ears continue to ring as he’s assailed with the deafening echo of the slammed door echoing throughout the entire complex. He sucks in a breath and feels his abdomen collapse inwards as his shoulders rise as if he’s bracing himself for a blow he knows will never come. 

(But he fears it every time.)

Junmyeon’s eyelids snap back as his alarm clock shrieks and he feels something bitter at the back of his mouth signaling that the day will not wait for him.

He cracks his neck as he realizes that he’s in a perfect horizontal log (he recalls a log cake he still has not eaten; a gift from his mother). He turns on his side, and stretches his unused hands and pushes himself up from his position on the mattress. The fitted bed sheet groans under his weight and slingshots off the lower right corner of the mattress in an almost inaudible pang.

Junmyeon, in his seated position, turns around to see that the sheets have left their bunched positions and all of his comforters have found their way shifted halfway off the mattress.

His nose twitches as he rubs it mistaking it for an itch.

He looks again to the clock and sees the warning red outlining into symbols he should recognize.

He rubs his eyes and they focus.

(They focus.)

 

Junmyeon’s checking the mail when he runs into Jongdae again. 

The boy has dyed his hair back to black and shaved the sides just a bit. The top part looks like a gracious flop over his face and there’s a flannel again tied around his waist, except this time a checkered black and white. His shirt is mustard yellow today; his skinny jeans a deep shade of navy. 

He’s laughing on the phone when they make eye contact.

Junmyeon doesn’t need a memo to know that he looks like shit.

(He sure still feels like shit.)

It’s Junmyeon that makes the step towards Jongdae, bills and advertisements in hand as Jongdae follows his lead.

They meet at the middle of the floor, Junmyeon in sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt and Jongdae looking nothing short of an _actual_ adult. 

(And Junmyeon suddenly feels the dread caressing the lining of his stomach again and he feels his throat constrict and his hands begin to get sweaty and--)

“You wanna--” Junmyeon starts, voice already shaking and he can feel his hands trembling. 

“Sure.” Jongdae says, his tone noncommittal, but it is enough to send Junmyeon into a rut. He cycles around, wondering if Jongdae is pissed. He sure as well might be pissed, Junmyeon reasons. He has every right to be, and Junmyeon doesn’t argue with that. 

(A lot of people have the right to be pissed with him, he’s accepted it.

He learned it.)

* * *

“I have anxiety.” Junmyeon states. The elevator ride was silent, and it doesn’t feel that long ago when Jongdae was chattering away making lists on his phone and holding boxes in the other arm. It is during that elevator ride that Junmyeon realizes that it’s been a month of residency with the kittenish boy with the Milk Tea hair. 

Jongdae doesn’t say anything as they sit on opposite stools at the breakfast bar. Junmyeon’s gotten Jongdae some water and for himself, tea. 

(“Do you want some--”

“Yeah,” Jongdae replies.)

He looks to Junmyeon, prompting him to continue.

“That’s it.” Junmyeon finalizes, taking a slow sip. The drink is still hot, but any sort of feeling would be better than the antsiness growing in his hands.

“Okay.” Jongdae says as he fiddles his fingers around the mug of water. “You know--When we were--Do you--” He pauses, and starts again with a different intake of breathe. “Do you wanna talk about...about it?” His voice is encouraging, open, like it was originally. 

“I mean--” Junmyeon stutters. 

“You don’t have to,” Jongdae quickly adds, eyes large and full of concern. He’s worried. He’s scared. 

He _cares_.

(And something inside Junmyeon wants to try. 

Just one more time.)

Junmyeon chooses to look away from Jongdae for a long amount of breaths. He opens his mouth, closes it, reopens, closes, and goes like that for a while. He wants to. He desperately wants to.

He wants to share a part of himself. 

For the boy who intends to live here. 

“You barely even know me,” Junmyeon settles on. He’s still fiddling with the handle of the mug, waving his index fingers around it as if it will make it magically levitate. Jongdae doesn’t deny this, and his silence prompts Junmyeon to continue. “I’d make a bad impression if the first thing we talked about was an anxiety attack.”

“Tell me about yourself then,” Jongdae offers, and Junmyeon looks up. “I’ll tell you stuff if you tell me stuff. Just a conversation is all.”

“Just a conversation.” Junmyeon repeats.

He turns his head, and sees house plants and failed omelettes and all the possible opportunities Junmyeon has been terrified of for years.

But something’s different.

This boy is different.

He intends to live here.

And Junmyeon’s letting him in.

* * *

His lips are peeling when he walks out of the lecture hall, backpack thumping against his back as he scrunches his eyes to keep out the sunlight and realign his contacts.

He fishes out his headphones and shoves the jack into his phone, scrunching his eyes together as his eyes burn from the recycled air. The sudden worry if he packed eye drops in his school bag clings to him, beating down on his neck and makes his ears tickle with just a tinge of heat.

He’s walking down a bumpy hill down long dirtied stairs when Junmyeon snakes his hand around his bag and palms for the smaller front pocket, fingertips lingering on the outside for the bottle (he has no intention of getting them out while walking, he has no intention of getting them out at all).

His earbuds dangle from his ears as he walks, feet scraping against each other and kicking up tiny dead leaves from the willow trees planted everywhere on campus (he looks down for a moment and feels his ears turn warm as he looks at his feet battling each other, his teeth latch onto his peeling skin from his bottom lip and starts ripping)

He picks ups his pace, swinging his legs faster and faster as his bag continues to slap against his back and he feels his calves start to protest against him. In his flurry of speed back to the dorms, his feet kick up a mound of dead leaves, courtesy of the autumn weather.  
He feels his cheeks grow warm and his ears start to burn and he suddenly regrets wearing a pullover hoodie in the autumn of California. 

_“Californians...you all are so weird…”_

He turns his head, looking around the mostly desolate student plaza and when he turns back around, he makes eye contact with a person in mint green headphones and an eyebrow piercing, eyebrow cocked as they look to his feet.

Junmyeon tries to smile (that’s what he learned right? Smile when you see someone, smile smile smile it’ll be fine) but his plan crumples under itself as he realizes his lower lip has been sucked inwards by his mouth and he ends up choking on his own spit.

Mint Headphones is out of sight when Junmyeon recovers and he scrunches again trying to refocus his lenses (Recycled air, Recycled air)

(His cheeks are burning his ears are gone there is ringing something is ringing.)

He speed walks his way the dorms and along the way he smells milk tea and chlorine and leather and takes a double take to see a group of students returning from a community pool relaxing around a table at a campus cafe. 

He makes eye contact with one of the guys seated and his heart jumps out of his ribcage and he all but walks away. He jolts himself forward and feels his hands violently tremble as he forms fists and ignores a musician selling their mixtape on campus as he steps onto the crosswalk.

(But the sudden worry if his rudeness would make this person upset for the rest of the day plagues him until he makes it past the crosswalk just before the timer finishes and a car nearly hits him to which he almost _snorts_ and wants to scream **“Try me.”** )

He almost runs dead on into a girl holding a basketball and she’s so tall and Junmyeon nearly vomits on instinct and she looks at him like he’s a walking carcass and he wouldn’t blame her. 

He makes it past the bakery that always sells watermelon bread he resists to buy and past the athletic store with all of the complicated outerwear and all but sprints past the music store that sells the highest quality guitar strings for the cheapest price and Junmyeon only knows because of--

His heart starts to skip it’s beats by the time Junmyeon is skipping stairs on his way into the student residency complexes.

* * *

“I had a group of friends,” Junmyeon says, looking at Jongdae’s water cup.

“And you know when like,” he pauses, it’s been years, “you just--Sorry I...I don’t know how to talk about this anymore.” 

Jongdae whispers, “It’s alright.” and Junmyeon feels chills run up his arm. 

“It’s like, when you think your friends are so great right? So perfectly awesome in their own ridiculous stupid as fuck way.” Junmyeon starts, because there will come a day when he can say their names. But he settles for this, and he’s okay with that. 

“And you want to keep hanging out with them you wanna keep staying with them until you can no longer run together, because that’s gonna happen. It’s totally gonna happen, that’s inevitable. But, but I wanted to keep going you know? I wanted to. I really wanted to. But I, couldn’t?”

Junmyeon furrows his eyebrows, because he honestly doesn’t know.

“Christ, I’m like, twenty.” He laughs and he feels his lips curl upwards but it hurts and it’s the first time in along time he admits it. 

“Sometimes you just put people in the sky because you think they deserve the most beautiful image of this fucking rock. And you just, _put_ yourself on this fucking rock. Staring up at them. Because you think the thing you deserve the least is to be beside them...So you just, gaze from afar…?”

“Yeah...Yeah I get that,” Jongdae says, and Junmyeon looks up at him, hands shaking and chest rattling from his heart stammering in his ribcage. He sucks in a shaky breath of air, and looks to Jongdae, who only looks back in mild confusion.

“You...you can talk…” Junmyeon attempts to prompt. 

“Oh! Oh--Oh, right.” Jongdae stammers, face turning red at the mild embarrassment. Junmyeon smiles just the smallest amount 

“Growing up was rough? I guess?” Jongdae says, and Junmyeon feels something settle inside of him when he realizes that Jongdae feels safe enough to talk with him about this.

“Dad was a deadbeat and left us when I was like, twelve. Mom was a florist and I was a part-timer during high school.” He begins, and Junmyeon looks at him to continue. 

“I got...some nasty depression during my junior year. We couldn’t afford all that fancy shit people do to get ahead and go to college you know? And I was losing motivation to do anything until I would just skip school some days because I couldn’t move. I lost my job and stuff and I was in pretty bad shape.” He pauses, and looks at the floor. “But then I met this guy...just this _guy_ ,” Jongdae furrows his eyebrows and presses his lips together in a thin line. 

“He was so sad. I had him in like, one class, and it was choir. I was in the more advanced group but we had the same period. He did it only for one year, credits you know?”

Junmyeon nods.

“And he was just so angry all the time, but he sang pretty well and we were like hey, wanna move up in levels?” Jongdae says, before shaking his head, his body shuddering. “He said no, and that choir wasn’t important and I got pretty pissed at him.”

“He studied his _ass_ off and I was like, whoa holy shit this guy is totally gonna go to an Ivy League or something…so I thought he had some sort of ego thing against music kids. I mean like, I was a music kid but I had realistic goals you know? So I got him but I was so pissed off and I just told him off...I said some nasty shit back then.” 

Jongdae clenches his jaw for a moment, and takes a long swallow. “He quit choir after a semester and transferred to art history. More studying I guess, it was Advanced Placement so I guess he _would_ take that class. But then he just....he just _died_.” 

Junmyeon takes a leap of faith, and holds Jongdae. He reaches forward and slings his arms around the boy, and his heart beats faster at the feeling of Jongdae returning the hug.

“I...this was supposed to be me comforting you,” Jongdae laughs and Junmyeon can hear Jongdae’s voice growing thicker with tears.

“It’s just a conversation.” Junmyeon whispers.

Jongdae cries, and Junmyeon holds him until they both start crying and they laugh in the thick fog of tears and shitty memories. 

And it is that day, that Junmyeon realizes, that the mysterious boy who intends to live here, not only has rooted himself in the apartment with his houseplants, but also in Junmyeon’s heart.

* * *

They get better from then on. They build the furniture together which later results in a tickle war and Junmyeon gets a load of Jongdae’s trashy romance dramas (which aren’t as bad as he thought they were, damn him Kim Jongdae)

They eat breakfast together on opposite stools at the breakfast bar, though as the days pass Jongdae all but begins to sit on Junmyeon’s lap as they scroll through news together and comment on terrible reporting. 

They start sharing beds from how often they have streaming marathons and sometimes, Junmyeon wonders if they should even be having a two bedroom apartment by then. Jongdae snuggles up against him every marathon, and Junmyeon lifts his arm up for Jongdae every time. 

Jongdae still hates his tea, but still tries it every time. 

Junmyeon feels safe with Jongdae, and whenever he stutters he flushes with an embarassment less hot each time. Junmyeon tells him about Kris, about Minho even, about Kyuhyun, and all the other people he’s been afraid of in his life. Jongdae tells him about his mother’s favorite flowers--orchids--and about the environment and all the things he likes about science. He tells Junmyeon about music and about choir and how sometimes he misses singing. 

Junmyeon offers to listen whenever Jongdae wants, and while he won’t be a grand audience, he’ll try his best.

Jongdae smiles so brightly then, Junmyeon almost puts him in the sky.

But he doesn’t.

It’s sweet.

 

But sometimes, things happen.

And sometimes, Junmyeon’s heartbeat booms over his music as he shuts the door to the apartment, hands trembling as he attempts to inhale slowly. His exhales flutter out of him, ripping through his lungs as he runs to his room and slams the door heart racing and he isn’t sure if it was because he bolted or because he can’t breathe. He feels his body shift, his stomach falling and brain sliding as his limbs fall weak and he can’t move his fingers.

His left hand sometimes doesn’t feel like it doesn’t belong to his wrist; and then his wrist isn’t connecting to his forearm, his elbow doesn’t exist, where is his shoulder? Bit by bit needles begin to sink into him, and he can’t move his fingers. He crouches against the door, shirt riding up his back and he feels the cold wood of his door against his flushed skin.

And he sometimes feels his legs lose balance as he falls to his side; he sees his hand wobbling to catch himself but he feels his wrist bend from his weight and he finds himself smelling the carpet. His earbuds begin to tug their way out of ears and he can’t hear anything other than his screaming pulse getting faster and faster and faster and Junmyeon feels his stomach flip and he can’t feel anything other than the hot flush of his face and the burning of his ears.

His phone beeps with a text from Jongdae and he sees his arm moving but he doesn’t feel the awkward bend of his fingers as he tries to align his thumb with the home button to unlock his phone. He sees himself texting Jongdae, the boy asking if Junmyeon wanted anything from the corner store and if they were out of anything.

[Kim Jongdae]  
Yo do we need anythin? Im at the corner store ~

[Kim Junmyeon]  
No 

[Kim Jongdae]  
you sure? did you check the cereal supply

[Kim Junmyeon]  
We don’t need anything

Junmyeon’s hand is burning, his left pinky warming as he accidentally opens his mail application and he sees the dozens of emails he’s been missing. The boom of his pulse slaps against his eardrums and when he stretches his fingers flat he feels his skin pulling, peeling, hand trembling and another exhales rips itself out of him.

When a third exhale takes flight in the span of five seconds, Junmyeon’s phone begins to buzz, the shrill beep making way into his hearing and suddenly his heart begins to speed up if that was even possible.

He lets the song blare a little longer as the singer goes into the second line of lyrics while he presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets and sucks in one breathe, holding it so it can’t rip itself out of him again.

(He will hold this phone conversation he will hold it he will hold it together.)

It takes him two tries with his fingers sweating to swipe the green pick up icon on his phone.

“…Hello?” He wheezes. (He won’t let this one rip through.)

“Junmyeon did you see my text?” Jongdae’s melodious string of greeting creaks out, the boy has always had a rather musical voice and on a normal day, Junmyeon would’ve been comforted to hear it.

Junmyeon holds the silence on his end, hoping that Jongdae figures that he didn’t. (He won’t let this one tear through.)

Jongdae sighs, “Man you needa check your phone more.” 

_I’m sorry._

A scream makes its way to the forefront of Junmyeon’s brain and he splutters out an apology.

“Nah it’s chill, just check it more so I know you’re not dying.” Jongdae laughs at his own joke and Junmyeon tries to jumble together a laugh but it arrives sounding more like a sob.

“Wait, Junmyeon, are you alright?” Even through the sound of the pulse shrieking in his ears and the crackle of the other line, Junmyeon can tell Jongdae’s voice is colored with concern and Junmyeon feels his lungs burning because someone with a voice of chiming bells shouldn’t be tainted so (especially for someone like Junmyeon)

“What did you need to ask me Jongdae.” Junmyeon dodges, he needs to do this. He can do this, he tells himself. He can keep this going. It’s just another day.

“What I need to ask you is if you’re alright, you sound weird,” Jongdae says, and Junmyeon hears the swishing of fabric on the other line.

_I think I’m dying._

Junmyeon imagines Jongdae quickly running to the checkout counter, possibly irritating the cashier, running home with the grocery bags and coming back to the and suddenly his chest tearing.

He heaves as another exhale rips out of him as his eyes begin to water and the faintest sound of a sob wretches out of his throat. He smashes his lips together; he’s not going to cry on the phone he will not let Jongdae know he will not he’s going to ask again he’s—

“I’ll be there in ten.” Jongdae says and it’s anything but a suggestion.

“No! No no don’t—” Junmyeon says and he has to catch his breathe. He closes his eyes and fresh hot tears scatter their way down his cheeks and his view begins to shift back and forth, side to side. Subsequently, all the noises in the world echo throughout his ears, louder than the traffic outside and the dogs barking. His heart rate begins to skip skip skip and he accidentally hangs up on Jongdae.

Junmyeon’s screen burns in the empty, dark space of his room, his lock screen a peach cherry blossom branch shining without a single damn to give.

Junmyeon’s chest rips open.

This time however, nothing comes out.

 

Junmyeon clamps his eyes shut as he feels his forehead starting to grease with oil and sweat and the back of his neck becomes sticky. His underarms begin to feel moist but it only results in folding himself further inwards. He hastily swings his arms out, dragging his long sleeves to cover his jittery hands. He tucks his arms back in between the slot of his thighs and his chest and he suddenly feels his stomach begin to grow warm and sticky and wet from how long he’s been pressed together, folded and creased.

He rolls further into the wall, letting his face stick to the rough white walls in an effort to rid himself, of himself.

The thoughts graze past him, slicing his clothes and breaking through skin as little red lines peep through in their violent wake and Junmyeon has to refrain himself from trying to catch them all.

But he’s so tired.

He throws himself against the wall in an attempt at cooling down.

The thoughts shriek past him, caressing his ears while shoving their fingers down his throat until their entire hands are stuck down his mouth and he can’t breathe anymore. They reach so far down and they grab his heart and collapse his lungs. They hold his heart, their firm fingers resting on the chambers as less and less blood makes it’s way out.

More hands make their move and in their anger, they hold back his arms and his ankles and fold them all the way back, breaking his wrists and his ankles.

They caress his ears and hold his eyes open, stitching his eyelids open as they demand that he sees.

The thoughts blow all of the air out of him.

They caress his ears, hold his heart captive, and sow poppy seeds on his skin.

He doesn’t want to catch his thoughts; he knows what they are.

He knows what they’re saying and in some fucked up way, Junmyeon tries to laugh as the hands snap open his ribcage and collapse his lungs and swing between the pages of his heart. He tries to cough up a laugh. Because in the end, he knows, that these are all his hands and his thoughts.

“Junmyeon?”

His shoulders heave forward as he hears Jongdae entering the apartment. There is rustling plastic and the resonance of a zipper throughout the entire apartment and Junmyeon can almost hear the deafening blow Jongdae’s hoodie makes when it lands on the couch.

Jongdae has always had a light tread on his feet, however today they’re the shells raining from the sky and Junmyeon is cowering in the trenches.

(He can smell his own body rotting.)

“Junmyeon?”

Jongdae snaps open the handle to Junmyeon’s room and he feels his stomach flood with acid as his chest begins to tingle with pain and his eyes begin to burn at the corners.

“Hey…hey…” Jongdae’s voice withers into soft silk. Junmyeon’s folded into the wall but he knows that Jongdae’s bending down on his knees from the sound of the boy’s jeans groaning.

_Get away from me even your jeans don’t want you to do that. Get off of your knees. Get off._

“It’s okay…breathe, Junmyeon I need you to breathe,”

“Junmyeon I need you to breathe okay, follow my hand.”

Jongdae moves his hand in a box pattern and Junmyeon tries to follow his patterns of wait, breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, repeat. They do that until the tears have dried on Junmyeon’s cheeks and he feels his arms grow sore from being so stiff previously. 

Junmyeon stands up and begins to walk out to the kitchen, and while Jongdae looks apprehensive, he follows the older.

There’s groceries still needing to be shelved and stored away.

He looks to Jongdae through his red-rimmed eyes and sniffles as he hands Jongdae a milk carton.

“We have things to do after all.”

Jongdae nods.

And sometimes, it’s just life.

* * *

It happens naturally, one day over breakfast when Junmyeon has attempted to make an omelette this time, and it’s just as failed. He puts some ketchup on it to make up for it and Jongdae all but cackles as he eats out of the frying pan. 

It was only to shut Jongdae up really, Junmyeon reasons whenever Jongdae retells this story to Junmyeon.

He kisses Jongdae on the lips to shut him up, simple as that. 

(The kitchen tile gets scrubbed later, very cleanly. Courtesy of both Jongdae _and_ Junmyeon.)

* * *

Kim Jongdae is a lot of things, and over their first three months, Junmyeon has learned a lot of things. 

But he hasn’t learned this. 

 

Jongdae answers the door, dragging his feet as he rubs at his side, the damn fool probably slept on his phone again. Junmyeon's pencil continues to circle and underline as he furiously vandalizes his history textbook (he paid out of his ass for this, almost literally, he better make it his.) He's about to move onto fucking Song China and their gunpowder when Jongdae opens the door and Junmyeon's earbuds serve no use to block out the world.

"Jongdae!” a low, deep yell echoes throughout the entire apartment complex and Junmyeon nearly swears (but Jongdae does in his place) However, Junmyeon stops his vandalizing, he knows this voice.

The owner of the voice starts talking faster, about everything, and Sehun stands while leaning on the doorframe.

"Are you working out? Seriously, I need to get my ass to that shit." the owner bumbles as he hears Jongdae invite him in and he hears shoes hit the foyer. Junmyeon busies himself while finding his orange highlighter (he needs to go)

"Why do our brothers use their brothers as their own shipping service. Why not use the post office?" Jongdae groans as he pads his way to his room. Junmyeon finds the orange highlighter and flips a page. 

He starts back-chewing on his inner lip and taps the button on his phone to change the song. He suddenly notices how dirty the screen is and takes to wiping it on his sweatpants. He then thinks that he should've done the laundry. 

A hand.

A hand he recognizes, but instinctively, he shies away, scrunching his shoulders together and pushing away as if he's being doused with cold water.

"...hey, I've been calling your name and--" the owner of the loud voice says, softly almost. Junmyeon hears a snort in his head but all he hears is silence on the outside. It's white static silence and Junmyeon is in gray sweatpants he hasn't done the laundry in a week he was supposed to do it yesterday but he didn't his orange highlighter is dying and he hasn't bought a new pack even though they were dying weeks ago really he--

"Hey Sehun," Junmyeon chokes out as he shakes himself free. 

Jongdae appears out of the corner of Junmyeon’s eye, a brown package in his hand. 

He smiles at Junmyeon, warm and knowing and soft like his flannel pajama bottoms. His hair's grown out, most of it black except for the ends that’ve been bleached by the sun. 

Sehun coughs to break to the tension.

Junmyeon raises his hand, motioning for Sehun to help him up from his sitting position on the floor.

“Long time no see right?” Junmyeon says as he smiles; his heart rate steadying as he stares Sehun straight in the eyes. He doesn’t know what lies there. This isn’t the Sehun from their high school days. 

He remembers a lisp that Sehun never truly outgrew. He remembers vanilla ice cream underneath the summer rain showers and bookstore study sessions. He remembers high school theatre productions of Shakespearean literature that he only understood when articulated by his best friend.

He remembers a lot of things, Junmyeon finds.

In foresight, he knows that they’re not always the same. 

“Long time no see.” Sehun replies softly, grabbing Junmyeon’s hand as he helps him up.

“Walk you out?” Junmyeon offers as Jongdae hands the package to Sehun. 

Sehun looks from Jongdae to Junmyeon, and mouths something like “Him?” and Jongdae nods while his eyes crinkle into the constellations Junmyeon makes out when he looks at his boyfriend.

Because constellations don’t exist in humans, and while Junmyeon would love to imagine that there were galaxies inside of humans and that every chemical reaction was like a supernova exploding while the tails of comets existed on the ends of neurotransmitters, he doesn’t.

But Junmyeon knows that there are enough chemicals in humans to find some sort of resemblance in comparing Jongdae to the brightest constellation Junmyeon can make up, because Jongdae will always be the brightest.

He doesn’t need to remember that.

He knows it.

And for Junmyeon, that’s more than enough.

(“Walk me to fucking New York City. We gotta pick up ‘Seok and ‘Yeol on the way too!” 

Junmyeon laughs.)

* * *


End file.
